Femme For Hire
by Phoenix13
Summary: PRE-MOVIEVERSE2007 Optimus Prime sends his ladylove Elita One on a mission for the Autobots that ONLY she can complete. How much guilt and despair can he take before he implodes? And will Elita One succeed or will she become a trophy for the other side?
1. Chapter 1

**Femme For Hire**

**Authors Note: **I made an exchange for a fanfic with _**optimus prime 007**_. She'd write me an Ultra Magnus fic ('A Day In The Life of Ultra Magnus'), and I'd write her an Optimus and Elita fic. This is my interpretation of the idea she provided for me. This will become 'M' rated, eventually. Hope it stands up to scrutiny so far! This is pre-Movieverse 2007, BTW. Before the big Allspark battles, and a long time before they leave on the big 'Find-The-Allspark' mission.

Here's what _**optimus prime 007**_ suggested (for the first bit, anyway, I won't reveal the whole suggestion, that would ruin the storyline!);

"Ok, my suggestion for the Oppy/Lita one shot:  
This takes place before they're bonded. Optimus is forced to send Elita on a  
mission that only she can do. Of course he doesn't want to send her and she  
sees it as her duty to go."

**Chapter One**

"Is this supposed to be the last rights of the damned, or something?"

Elita One stood just inside the doorway of Optimus Prime's private quarters, hard thighs spread over braced knees, with her arms crossed over her curvy chest, cautious optics looking around like she was surveying a battlefield that still had live Decepticons on it.

The over-sized red and blue mech gave her a soft smile over his shoulder, "No, it is me wanting to give you a comfortable and elegant last night of recharge – or something."

Elita cocked an optic ridge, walking inside further. The heavy, fully-loaded, rifle hanging at her hip brushed against her thigh as she moved. "And my quarters aren't NICE enough for that?"

"Femme," Optimus rubbed at his forehead, frustrated. Couldn't she just accept that he wanted to do nice things for her? Did he always have to come up with reasons and excuses? "Please, just enjoy it. I want you to feel relaxed and at ease here. Unless you'd rather we go back to your place?"

"Mmmm... not. Yours is so much better. Femme Commanders still don't get the luxuries that Mech Commanders do." Elita's mouthplates twitched as she seated herself in an available mech-sized chair. Her feet barely brushed the ground.

Optimus walked back to her, halting and holding out one upturned hand. "Come."

"Come? Come where? I thought we were going into recharge..." Elita retorted. She was still ruffled up about the de-briefing she and her mechfriend had just endured, courtesy of Prowl and Ultra Magnus. The words 'dangerous', 'impossibly difficult', and 'unlikely to succeed' still echoing in her sensitive audios.

Soft male optics glowed down at her. "You'll see. Follow."

She allowed him to lead her gently across the room and into his cleaning facility. She knew what was there. An oil bath receptacle big enough to take two or _three_ Optimus Prime's, let alone one. More perks of being at the top of the mech-chain.

"May I?" He stood at her back, his hand brushing past her hip, broad flat fingers grasping at the handle of her rifle, but not taking it; instead, waiting for permission. "I'd rather not have weapons in here."

She looked up him with a tilt back of her head. Her helmet thunked against his chest plating. "Afraid I'll shoot off something you want to keep?"

Masculine optics twinkled down at her. "You're funny."

Her gun left her hip with the softest of disengaging clicks. She always admired the way he handled weapons. Sure, Ironhide was the Weapons Specialist, but her mech was a lot more thoughtful and caressing in his technique. No blunt force or hard jabs. She watched his hand slide her rifle into a recessed port in the wall just outside the door, securing it in place.

It was then she noticed the steam rising off the already-filled bath. She snorted.

"I don't believe this. You had this all planned out. Have a nice lubricating bath, femme, to make you feel better about sacrificing yourself for the Autobot cause. Yeah, right."

The moment the bitter words left her mouthplates, she regretted them. He was trying to do the nicest things for her he could possibly imagine. He was being crushed enough by the thought he had to send her on a mission that could result in her early termination, and here she was throwing insults at him? Her optics looked up cautiously.

Optimus was standing rigid. His face were cast downwards at the floor. Sad. Un-nerved. Like he was just barely holding himself together while trying to please her and she'd just struck the final blow. It made her realise just how much he really must care for her to appear so spark-broken. Love, perhaps? Any other mech would have been throwing her angry words back at her and walking out. But not him. He appeared distressed. Hurt.

"Sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean that." Elita splayed one hand over her face with a heavy sigh. Embarrassed. "Forgive me, Optimus. I'm not... myself."

His optics lifted to look at her. His expression appeared fragile for an instant, then it changed. To something more like... lust?

"Forgiven." The word issued from his mouth like a whispered caress. "Perhaps I can set your CPU at ease. Would you permit me to bathe with you?"

Before she could utter another word to redeem herself, Optimus had lifted himself over the edge of the bath using his long legs and was slowly lowering his massive physique into it. His arms were braced on the edges of the bath for support. He was an impressive, optic-searing, absolute delight of mechhood, sliding into the thick scented oil with carefully flexed muscle cables and glistening armor. His mouthplates parted wantonly and his face lifted up to the ceiling with dimming optics at the wonderful sensation of hot oil filling the gaps and joints of his long-neglected body.

The oil came halfway up his wide bulging chest when he sat down. Blue optics greeted her and beckoned her with a 'What are you waiting for?' expression. An oil-slick hand raised itself up out of the oil to again be held palm-upwards towards her. Waiting.

"Come?"

Elita shook her head, "You know, you need a good thesaurus. There are other words in the Cybertronian language to express yourself with other than 'come'."

Large shoulders shimmering with oil shrugged faintly. "It works."

"Of course it does..." Elita muttered, taking his hand to help steady herself as she climbed in.

Mech fingers grasped hers warmly. Her entry was not anywhere near as elegant and taunting as his had been. His height had made it easy. Hers didn't. Shortness was a pain.

Slipping and sliding, she finally ended up sitting next to him on a higher step, to be at his level. His hand came up smoothly to wrap around her thighs. Caressing. Holding. Trying to offer comfort for the situation that she was facing, for which there could _be_ no comfort. His face was turned towards hers. Optics dim. Offering his company as something, perhaps, for her to hold onto.

Neither of them were going to say the words that this could be the last happy moments they had together.

Her air-intakes made bubbles when her body relaxed. "Oh, that's good." For a short moment, her mission with its pallor of impending doom faded away from her memory.

"Told you," Prime's chest made the oil upon it shimmer with his chuckle. "Please relax."

"...oh, I've done that already. Mmmm."

This was such a luxury. War kept such things beyond arms length. But it didn't last long. The words and arguments of the mission briefing were being sent around and around inside her CPU. She was sitting enjoying an oil bath – and tomorrow she really could be terminated. Dead. Being here with her mechfriend was almost too much too take... it perfectly highlighted everything she stood to lose.

Elita's head sank down for a moment, then she stood up abruptly. "I.. I.. can't stay..."

She began to clamber out of the heated oil, feet hitting the ground, splashing it everywhere (oh, the cleaning drones were going to _love_ her).

"Elita?" Optimus began to rise up, concern written all over his faceplates. Oil streamed down every part of his physique. "Where are you going?"

"I'm sorry... really sorry. I just can't do this, right now. It's too much. Too much..." Elita kept her head down as she briskly wiped the oil from her arms, legs and torso before turning to leave. She looked at him briefly over her shoulder; saddened and ashamed; lifted her rifle from its nook in the wall where Optimus had carefully placed it, then went out the front door.

The Autobot Commander was left standing alone in his rooms. He wouldn't chase her. When a bot was facing the biggest day of their life, how they dealt with it was entirely up to them, even if every piece of him that was male wanted to comfort a female in distress. He'd offered her comfort and company. She'd taken some of it and now the rest was up to her.

_**One Orn later... after Elita's departure...**_

Iacon was silent that night. His brooding optics wished it wasn't. Just when he needed some weapons fire, audio-deafening explosions, and mech's racing around all over the place to distract his brooding CPU – there was absolutely NOTHING. He kept his comlink open and ready. Waiting for a signal. Waiting for _anything_ – from her. She wasn't allowed to use her comlink until her mission was complete, of course, but that didn't stop his mech spark from screaming for her to call him.

Optimus Prime leant his hands on the walkway railing in front of him, bracing his wide shoulders with a metallic creak of protest and dropping his head down to think. Crystal blue optics ran themselves over the cityscape before him. The darkness did nothing to hide its beauty. The capital city had not fallen yet, and Primus knew, with Elita's help, it wouldn't for some time at least.

He didn't want to go back to his quarters. Elita wouldn't be in them tonight. What was the point? It was an empty silent space just like the walkway, but at least where he was currently standing, he had a view.

She had left quietly. He had walked himself to her quarters; early; and stood helplessly in front of her door. He'd knocked, but she hadn't answered. So he just stood there. Finally, not knowing what else to do, he laid the palm of one hand on the door, said a silent prayer to Primus for her, and left for the Command Room, where she would go to receive her final instructions.

He'd never know she had been sitting on her aft against the door on the other side, her face turned to the ceiling and her rifle lying in her limp hands while she listened to his movements and a stream of energon tears slid down her metallic cheeks.

His hands squeezing hard enough to crack the window support, Optimus cursed himself. This was _murderous_. He couldn't contact her. She couldn't contact him. Why the slag had he ever made such stupid rules? The little logical mech inside him yelled and jumped up and down – _to keep you, her, and the Autobots safe, aft-head!_

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself."

Prime's optics flared at the sudden presence of another mech beside him; and his words. He lifted a graceful but heavily masculine optic ridge and glanced sideways at the lump of mech that was only a smidgen bigger than himself in both height and width. "Magnus, don't you have some awards to polish, or some data records to arrange in alphabetical order?"

The blue and white mech moved his head, studying his friend, "You're confusing me with Prowl."

"No, I don't think so," Optimus turned his optics back to the view. It wasn't so pretty without Elita standing beside him. "You're just a little less pedantic and have bigger muscle cables." A pause. "Go away, Magnus."

Ultra Magnus turned around, putting his back to the handrail (his latent strength threatening to break it without effort) and staring at his Commander. Not hurt in the least by Prime's dark mood and words. "The others would never guess that such mean and spiteful words could ever come out of such a legendary mouth. Missing Elita?"

"What do you think?" Optimus growled. He immediately hated himself for that. With anyone else he could keep his temper, keep his spiked words in, maintain a diplomatic demeanour, put on his 'Leader Face'. But Magnus was too old a friend. And he needed the outlet. "I... apologise."

Magnus didn't respond. His optics moved from staring at the side of Prime's armored head to looking down at his own over-sized feet. "No you don't. And I don't mind. If I had a femme to send out there... if I WOULD send her out there - I'd be worse. If any of the others talked to me..." he shrugged, "Sunstreaker would be missing his legs, Tracks would find his imported polish welded to his forehead and even Bumblebee would have dents." He smirked. "At least you're just making hurtful words with me, that's not too bad."

Prime's slanted dim optics at him. "Just when I think you're all muscle and hydraulics, something amazing comes out of that CPU under all that armor."

Ultra Magnus' faceplates moved with surprise, "Amazingly, Elita said that about you too. You know, you should get bonded. Seems like a good match to me."

Prime's head jerked, then sank down, "Magnus.. just... I need some time alone."

"Alright," Magnus sighed heavily. Then paused as he turned to leave. "Is it me or do you smell... 'pretty'?"

"Magnus!"

"Going!"

Optimus pushed up the sensitivity on his olfactory sensors. Damn. He did smell pretty... too much femme stuff in the oil bath. Oh Primus. Just one more thing to remind him of her.

**NOTE**: How was that, _optimus prime 007_? A good enough start? All shall be revealed in the next chapter about Elita's, uh, 'mission'. And it ain't what you think...


	2. Chapter 2

**Femme For Hire**

**Authors Note: **This was a hard chapter to fit together! While I have my notes planned out, my muse ran away BIG TIME! I also had a bad experience with a new doctor, I'm still shaking - ain't never going back there again. FINITO! Doctors suck.

Please note that this is set in the VERY early days of the war, and Optimus is still learning how to be a Commander. He isn't the all-knowing, wise, powerhouse legend that he is now (although he's getting there!). Enjoy.

**Chapter Two**

_**Iacon Command Centre, seven orns into Elita One's mission... and still no contact. **_

Jazz frowned, not seeing what he had come to find, "Where's Optimus?"

On the tips of his agile feet, Jazz peered hopefully around the small Command Centre. Having just entered the room, he had hoped to be immediately confronted by the huge towering form of the Autobot Commander. The mech was always easy to find in a room. Just head for the biggest, tallest, mass you could find, with a cluster of adoring Autobots around it, and there he was. Unless Omega had dropped in for a visit... but he had no clamouring groupies.

Leaning over a table sprawled with strategic data and the latest comlink transmissions, Prowl spared the smallish silver mech a glance, "Not here."

"Oh." Jazz let his body sag down. "He's moping again?"

Prowl frowned, considering his answer. He liked Jazz, the bot had the sharpest CPU anywhere, with an easy sense of humor (and if Prowl would ever allow himself to be pushed that far, a lovely pint-sized aft too, and that visor he wore made him want to stare all day in the hope of catching a look at the elusive inquisitive optics hidden underneath) but he didn't utilise the latest slang speak the younger mech's were fond of. His processor took a moment to configure his answer.

"...if you want to call it that, then yes."

Jazz shook his head and muttered a few expletives. He looked up from under his visor as a black thick mass rose from its seat at the rear of the room, looking like the ascension of doom itself.

"I'll get the fragger," Ironhide announced in a menacing growl, stomping his over-sized frame past an open-mouthed Jazz.

"Okay!" Jazz said brightly. He looked back at Prowl who had narrowed his gaze at Ironhide's passing. "Boss bot is in his quarters?"

Prowl hesitated, wondering how much he should reveal. Jazz was trustworthy. "No. He's in Elita's."

"What?!" Flinching and spluttering, the small mech looked astounded. "Oh. That's... sad, you know? Really sad. We need to take him out and get him over-energised or something, get some potent stuff down his throat and let him talk it out."

Prowl appeared disturbed at the thought of the Great Optimus Prime sprawled over a table and sobbing out his sorrows, "Uh, no. We do not."

_**Elita's quarters...**_

Optimus Prime had entered Elita One's private quarters without paying close attention to what he was doing. He'd just drifted through the base corridors until he arrived at her door, over-rode the security codes, and stepped inside. His great frame relaxed visibly. His helmeted head dipped. This was her domain, it made his spark feel better to just... _be_ there. While he wasn't absent from his duties as Base Commander – he'd never shirk his duties - he couldn't concentrate or be confident about the decisions he was making for the Autobot cause. His cause.

One small automatic light had lit up one corner of the room when he entered, barely caressing his stress-tight form with faded white light. The ridges and planes of his face appeared stark. His body seemed drained of its usual vibrant color. Harsh. His presence made her quarters seem even smaller than they were. She didn't have many artefacts or belongings, her personal space was mostly bare, and she had tastes just like his own; simple, un-cluttered. No particular style. He didn't want to touch her things. He only wanted to be near her, and this was the closest he could get.

Femmes treated their quarters differently from mechs. They cleaned up, tidied, and made sure furnishings had matching colors. They invited friends in for a chat. Mech's only cared about where to hang up their guns, and how big the recharge berth was for tumbling upon with a femme.

His optics brightened and dimmed alternately as he thought haphazardly, his CPU crashing anguished ideas and realisations together. Did he really love her that much? He thought he did. What was love anyway? He didn't think he had been in love before. Was love causing this? Hurting his spark, turning his CPU into a dead zone, depriving him of satisfactory recharge and causing thoughts of her to be at the fore front of his over wrought processor? Must be love. And did he always visit her quarters now she was gone because of guilt or sorrow?

Was she... dead now?

So he just stood there, merely one hesitant step inside the door. Not moving. Hands hanging limply by his narrow hips. Silent. His metal mass contained his anger, grief and fear within a tiring structure of almost savage mechness.

Outside in the hallway, oblivious to the young Optimus Prime's nervous breakdown, Ironhide drew to a halt outside Elita's door, having had to walk past the other few femmes in the female section of the army's small residential area; not an unpleasant task by his standards. The armored door was, of course, locked and sealed.

Some of the femmes had poked their head's out of their doors, wondering what mech with the big heavy footsteps was invading their territory now. They had already seen Optimus. He hadn't been discrete. A dull, depressing figure trooping past. Seeing Ironhide's scary physique, most disappeared from sight quickly. Except for a femme with light blue armor, and a rifle hanging from her re-enforced hip with enough power to make Megatron wince...

"I was waiting for you to turn up. He's been in there for a while now."

Ironhide's head turned, a happy smirk on his mouthplates and his optics brightening from their threatening gaze. "Chromia."

The femme smiled, liking the view she had of his solid male physique. "Knew they'd send you in. Only the toughest..." she gave him a languid parting wave and withdrew into her own room.

Ironhide shook his head. No time for femmes now. He had a simpering, 'woe-is-me' aft to kick. He placed his hand on the door panel and accessed the control unit with his own CPU. Optimus must have used his own over-ride code to get in, and then set it to stop anyone else from coming in after him. But Optimus wasn't too bright at utilising door security protocols. Ironhide's systems located the code in a stray data string where Optimus had failed to cleanly remove his blundering essence, and grumbled as the locks disengaged with heavy thunks from top to bottom.

The door opened without further drama, ushering him into the dark interior of Elita One's private room. He went to take a step forward and almost walked straight into Optimus Prime's rigid unbreakable back.

With a squeak, Ironhide managed to rock backwards on his feet to avoid slamming into Optimus. "Slag it! YOUNGLING!"

The larger mech didn't move or react. Still as stone. No, 'I apologise, Ironhide', no order to leave him alone, no wild fist coming at his face. Nothing.

"Hn." With a roll of his colossal shoulders, Ironhide took a step around Optimus to face him. Expecting to see anguish. Despair. Someone contemplating taking themselves off-line. Absolute depression. Perhaps even unreasonable anger.

Instead he was confronted with a dirty, dull metal, expressionless mech. Not a flicker of movement or sound came from him.

Ironhide propped his fists on his hips and arched his chest out, looking up at his tall Leader. "You look like slag."

Large optic sweepers closed and opened once. Nothing else. Optimus was looking through him. Ironhide had the horrible feeling that he could have been Megatron and the reaction would not have differed in the slightest. That far-too-handsome, carefully structured face that Optimus protected with a specially made face mask in battle was utterly blank.

Ironhide groaned internally. Better keep talking... this was going to be one of those episodes. He turned on his best jovial manner.

"Now me, I can look like slag and pull it off. I'll still have femmes stuck to my aft wanting attention. You, on the other hand – no. It's bad."

It really was. How the most handsome, broad, hydraulic heavy, muscle cable bound, droolworthy mech could look so fragging awful, Ironhide did not understand. No charisma, no smile, no intelligence radiating out from his faded optics. Then he noticed something else. He arched an optic and snorted, looking over Prime's thick shoulder at an empty space on his wide back that should have contained something vitally important.

"Where's your rifle?!" he demanded, aghast.

It was normal to see the handle of Optimus Prime's formidable weapon standing out comfortingly upon his back. Always. Without fault. They all knew that anyone standing behind him for safety in a battle would be swiftly protected with the great weapon. But now...

Ironhide ran a hand over his own optics with a grunt, "Oh, good Primus, you've really lost it. We can't let the others see you like this. It's a disaster."

He and Ratchet had thought they'd put a true Leader in the top position. A mech with titanium cables for guts, great smarts, amazing potential, limitless power for crushing 'Cons, and with outstanding femme attracting charisma and looks. That was their Optimus Prime, and more.

"...Lost...?"

The Weapons Specialist jerked at the sound. He was coming back. Primus knew how many more of these 'episodes' he could endure. Now to keep him talking. "Yeah, that's right. You've lost your aft-spawned CPU, you know that?"

Prime's optics moved. His body creaked, hydraulics whistling, hands clenching. "I've lost... lost..." his angular faceplates twitched from blank, to anguished, and back again. "Elita. My... fault. Me."

It was force of will that kept Ironhide from reaching out and hugging the stupid lugnut. He only ever hugged femmes, and even then, only during interfacing.

"Oh no, that femme you've got can handle herself without a problem, I fear for the 'Cons, I really do," he frowned, "no, wait, I don't, but anyway, let's get you turned around and back to your own quarters, yeah?" His hands touched the sides of Prime's bulky chest, getting him to turn slowly. "That's it, keep'em moving."

"Need a hand?"

A body just as big as Prime's but a touch broader, and lacking his outright elegance, was blocking Optimus' way out. Large hands reached out and grasped their young Commander gently. "Come on, Optimus, you need some rest."

"I can handle this, Magnus," Ironhide grunted, pushing at Optimus from behind, his thighs straining as he leaned in. Prime was one heavy lump to shove around.

"Sure you can! But we love teamwork, don't we Mags?" Silver three-fingered hands snuck up between the bigger mechs and patted Optimus on the hip. "Let's go Boss bot, back to your quarters. One foot in front of the other, yep, you're doin' great, see! Easy!"

Their Commander's legs moved sluggishly. The long powerful thighs lifted and dropped with listless activity. Large feet plonked without any direction in mind.

Watching, Ironhide growled, spinning the gyro's in his cannons. He didn't like receiving 'help'. Ultra Magnus was walking in front of Optimus, coaxing the dazed mech onwards while Jazz used deft touches to keep the huge mech moving along. Teamwork indeed.

"When he's more experienced, he'll cope alright with things like this. Some rest, support, refuelling, and a kick in the aft, and he'll get better. We need him."

Ironhide groaned. Not him too! "Ratchet!"

"Oh, be quiet, 'Hide," Ratchet waved him off, his optics following Optimus Prime's slow progress down the hallway. "His spark is overwhelming his CPU. He can't function. And honestly, if he was sparkbonded to her, he'd probably be even _worse_."

The black mech loomed over the shorter CMO, snarling, "Who else knows about this?"

"Just us, and Prowl. And the femmes probably think he's gone a bit strange, so his reputation as Commander Femme Magnet will be spoiled." Solemn optics looked up at Ironhide, "We're not going to leave him alone with your brand of psychology, Ironhide. I mean, seriously, ouch. He's still a youngling."

Ironhide took a swipe at him with one hand, but missed. Ratchet had already moved off after his patient, calling at Jazz not to put dents in Prime's aft with his enthusiastic pushing.

"Dents. I'll put _dents_," Ironhide muttered trailing slowly after the small crowd ahead of him.

Ratchet took charge of the morose Leader once they had reached his rooms. Ultra Magnus rounded up Ironhide and Jazz, taking them away while Ratchet did a quick physical check of Optimus (frowning at the results and waving a disappointed finger around) and then sent the large mech to his recharge berth – early. With orders not to move off of it unless it was an emergency or the base was under attack.

Optimus had silently followed the CMO's directions. He didn't even have the energy to curse Ratchet's departing aft out the door. But he found recharge something far beyond his ability. He now understood the phrase 'too tired to recharge'.

"...Ugh."

Lying on his front upon his oversized recharge berth, Optimus Prime lifted his head shakily and raised an unsteady hand to his face to stop the bright light of his communications terminal from burning out his sensitive optics. It was the only light in the room. Normally the small light would be inconsequential, but Prime's poor physical condition was a major worry. His optics required some significant downtime to re-set the delicate crystals within themselves as routine maintenance, but since Optimus wasn't giving them enough recharge time to do so... ouch. Bright light hurt.

Swivelling his optic spheres within their casings hurt like murder. His optics ached. His head hurt.

It was still a long lonely time until Cybertron's weak dawn flooded the small window of his private quarters. From a Commander's point-of-view, he could get up and begin his duties early, going against Ratchet's orders, but then... his CPU was barely functioning as it was, but he couldn't stop thinking about...

Elita.

Primus, he'd sent her to her _death_...

Optimus choked out a groan. His great head sank down to rest its bulk upon his forehead on the berth. Rolling onto his side, he curled up weakly. Knees to his armored chest.

Where was she? Why hadn't they heard from her? Didn't she know how much he... how much...

His hands gripped the sides of his head with a deep groan of despair. "No..."

_**On the other side of Cybertron...**_

"GET UP THERE YOU RETRO-FITTED, TANK OF FILTH!"

The small steel can on wheels being shoved over the wall by an irritated, out-of-patience Elita One, shrieked and warbled its own slew of curses. Its short arms gripped the top of the wall and hung on. It didn't want to get chucked! The femme pushed, panted, swore and finally – with an impossibly big thrust – got the recon bot over the other side. For something so small the thing weighed nearly as much as Bumblebee!

It landed on its side with a whistle and gurgle of displeasure, then promptly began oozing oil all over the ground from a busted fuel line.

The red femme with the sleek lines, chrome inserts and all-business armor landed beside it. She grimaced while rubbing at the middle of her sore back. "Primus... I thought Wheeljack said you were 'un-bustable'. Why didn't you bounce? And where are you drooling from now?"

The podbot got itself upright using a propped strut then bounced indignantly on its three wheels and produced a small display screen listing what needed repairing. She frowned, ignored the screen (she never could work out what the instructions said, that was mech stuff) and turned it upside-down with slim hands.

A long digital peal of indignation came at her.

"Oh, shut it, you'll attract attention. I'm fixing you."

The bot stayed uncomfortably silent and put up with 'the fixing'. At least her hands were more gentle than the big clumpy mech's back home. It was eventually set upright again.

"Right. You're good." Elita wiped her hands off on a silver cloth she dragged out of a hip compartment, and squinted her optics into the distance. "I'm pleased we've survived this far. Head Command thought we wouldn't. Notch one up for the femmes."

Podbot opened a slot on his front and ejected an empty datacase at her in contempt. He wasn't a femme! Elita merely lifted one optic ridge at him in amusement.

"Now, while this place ahead of us is deserted - as far as Autobot intelligence knows, anyway - we must still adhere to silence and stealth since this is enemy territory, so no whistling songs, grouching about how filthy the ground is or wanting to play games. Yes?"

The bot blinked some lights at her.

Elita eyed it, "Uh huh. I'm extrapolating that means yes. Let's get going..."

The tall femme started forwards, picking her way through debris and shattered buildings with her scanners on full and a rifle in her right hand, the podbot trundling along behind her. She was heading for the original home of Megatron before he graduated from sparklinghood and became the High Protector of Cybertron and then on to being the vicious Decepticon Leader.

The starting place for the Decepticon uprising. Kaon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Femme For Hire**

Authors Note: I'm SO sorry for being so late! I hit a major stumbling block with this. It took a few hearty smacks of get-up-and-go to bring this back on track. I'm writing this for _optimus prime007_, and I hope it meets with her approval. She's battling fires near her home right now – be safe girl! On another note, I'm getting an Autobot tattoo done sometime in the next few months. Have wanted one for twenty years, and now I'm taking steps to make it happen. I've learned of some other authors that also have one. Onya guys! Very brave.

**Chapter 3**

Elita One groaned. A lucky shot... a _lucky_ shot. Just one shot, and everything had gone to the pit.

Ironhide was right. She wouldn't tell Chromia that in so many words - she'd never see the end of the blue femmebot's indulgent smirks - but he was. The black mech had told her time after time that if you made one mistake in combat, no matter how small, it was often amplified and thrown back at you at ten times the magnitude.

One unfortunate encounter with a rogue re-wired Sentinel robot and she'd been badly damaged and barely escaped with most of her body intact. The huge servant-type robot had once been used by the Autobot Council to guard the Autobots before Optimus Prime had come along – that was until the Decepticons started capturing them, ripping out their logic circuits, and re-programming them to attack anything wearing an Autobot symbol.

Elita turned her head to run her gaze over the smoking twitching _headless_ body of the Sentinel. She had won the fight, and despite being shot (the _lucky_ shot); allowing her foe to get in several more blows that had ripped her badly before she fought back; she was satisfied with her performance (knocking out a Sentinel was a major feat; they were dumb, but several times her size and ten times as strong). But what good was winning when she was now in no condition to make it back home?

She drew a harsh gasp through her intakes and lifted her mangled right arm up in front of her face, rotating it to get a better perspective. The rose tinted metal was mangled. Sparking flashes of tortured and ripped blue circuitry hit her optics. Her forearm armor shredded and crushed. Her optics were having trouble focusing, so to really see what the damage was, she was peering at her wounds close-up, and if they appeared bad out of focus, close up was murder. She didn't know how Ratchet dealt with this stuff orn after orn. She'd go mad. Looking down at the rest of her messed up body made her cringe. Optimus wasn't going to be impressed with the state of his femme. He'd fritz. A torn arm, ripped midsection, split rotor cuffs in her hips, a misaligned left thigh so she walked by doing a strange hop and shove...

Shoving some of her worst thoughts into the back of her CPU, her head sagged between her knees, her elbows propped on each of her thighs. She shifted her weight on her aft, feeling the wall at the back of her hips. She knew the glittering stains on the floor were hers. Old stains didn't reflect light. Fresh ones did. She could track her own desperate path down the corridor by the twinkling pretty wet spots and it was actually very artistic. Pretty little spots.

Spots made of her energon... splashed in random patterns.

She released a jerky rush of air out of her intakes and wondered how angry Optimus would be when he took count of how much of a transfusion she would need when their base supplies were running so low. Her optics looked up to peer tiredly over her limp hands. Now she knew her CPU was fragged. Optimus didn't get angry with things like that. Concerned, yes. Worried. Solemn. A little fritzy. A weak smile graced her mouthplates as she thought that. Her giant, all-powerful, gorgeous, aft-wrecking, mech. Fritzing.

Currently she was allowing herself the luxury of one small 'woe-is-me' huddle on the floor while her systems cooled down and she raked through her CPU for what to do next. She was hazily remembering what Optimus had been teaching her about being a Commander. He'd managed to break her of making harsh hasty decisions when she first took command of the Femme Division, and he'd been coaching her into taking a step back, re-analysing, and not losing sight of her ultimate goal while blowing some Decepticon's head back to Primus. The massive mech had drummed into her that plans mattered, and they were not to be tossed aside in lieu of downing as many 'Cons as she could get in her target sights on the battlefield.

Her optics shuttered open and closed tiredly, an echo of how Prime often flicked his when he was under stress. Even when Optimus was recharging, if he was badly stressed his optic sweepers often started moving, his mouthplates frowning. It made him look like an upset sparkling.

Everything had been going so well. She'd made it to Kaon undetected. Broken through the feeble underpowered defences guarding the perimeter. Downloaded the information on Megatron that Autobot intelligence required. Then hot footed it out of there.

Maybe she'd been too hasty in thinking the mission was over with when she had left Kaon's perimeter...

"Hey... HEY! You're a femme!"

Elita lifted her head wearily, pulling her rifle across her lap with her trigger finger on the power trigger. Her optics focused blearily on the green small mech standing in front of her. It was getting harder to focus. A hand grabbed at her shoulder and jerked her towards him. A cry of pain was wrenched from her mouthplates, the sensation shoving her CPU into defence mode.

Snapping her rifle up to shove it under the chin of her assailant, she glared at him with a growl. "Let go – NOW."

Another hand reached out and plucked her gun away from her. Damn it. Why hadn't she paid more attention to what was happening around her? Maybe she'd blacked out for a moment. She couldn't be sure.

"She's a pretty one. Real pretty." An arrogant mech voice came from her left. Hands grabbed the sides of her head and whipped her around to face him. Her body screamed with pain. "I think I know this one... seen her before somewhere. Doesn't matter though, she's ours now!"

The two mech's – one small, one large, but both very ugly and wearing scratched and faded Decepticon insignia's – looked down at her, making comments and poking her occasionally. The weakness flooding her red physique made Elita angry. To come all this way, to go through so much, only to be downed by a slagged Sentinel and roughed up by some lowly 'Cons. She hated her luck.

"You know what?" The bigger one leered at her. "She does look good. Someone's roughed her up, but I don't mind damaged goods. 'Specially when they're cute _Autobot_ goods."

Elita groaned. Great. Fragging _wonderful_. Nevermind what Optimus and the Council had been worried about; that she'd be terminated by a Decepticon party; she was going to be done in by an overzealous Sentinel bot and two slagged up bottom-of-the-heap Decepticons who stumbled across her by accident!

Well, she wasn't going to give in to these slagtards. Smirking internally, she activated her concealed shoulder-mounted missile launchers – and froze in disbelief when the left one spluttered and died before it had finished transforming, and the other refused to activate at all.

Oh Primus. This was embarrassing.

She tried shunting in a blaster from her subspace pocket. That refused to open too, and to add insult to injury, smoke rose in little trickles from her shoulder launchers. Not content to refuse to work, now they were smouldering at a high temperature in her shoulder compartment and threatening to melt her wires. She cursed silently.

...had Optimus ever had a day like this?!

"She's tryin' to shoot us, Dax!"

Her reactions were too screwed up and slow to stop them. One of the mechs threw a hard punch across her jaw, followed by ramming a foot into her midsection. Elita reeled sideways, hitting the ground. Her systems began shrieking with error messages.

"Femmes should know their place!" Daxis snarled.

He grabbed her by the throat and lifted her up. Elita was a big femme but the angry mech was bigger than her – and stronger – and he hadn't already gone fist-to-fist with a Sentinel. He swung her around and tossed her into the wall. Hard. She hit it and slid down to the ground in a disorganised jumble of broken limbs. By now Elita was hard pressed to stay coherent at all. She was leaking enough energon to make Ratchet have a fit, she couldn't stand, one optic had stopped working and the other was at less than thirty percent efficiency.

Daxis dropped to one knee in front of her with fake sympathy. "Awww, is the pretty femme all banged up? Does it hurt?" His hand reached out and acted like a claw as he closed his fingers over her upper chest plating and began digging his fingertips in. "I know who you are; Elita One, right?"

"Elita One?" The smaller mech said excitedly, bouncing behind him. "She's Prime's female!"

"Yes." Daxis narrowed his optics. "Optimus Prime's femme. It's our lucky moment."

Elita coughed on a thin stream of energon flooding her mouth. Her hands grabbed at his wrists, trying to wrench his hands off her body and away from her chest.

"That means we get to use _his_ goods. This is gonna be great." Daxis leered at her. "Hey Fender, we're gonna be going where only the great Optimus Prime has been before! How ya like the sound of that, little whore? I bet you'll like us better than him. I can't see Prime as being a great interface! He probably does it in the dark, the fraghead." He thrust his hips back and forth crudely.

Elita's optics shuttered with pain. They were talking about raping her... She tried blindly to activate any weapons system she had left but nothing was working. Error after error assaulted her CPU. She had nothing left. The thought of these two delinquents touching her like only Optimus had the right to -

"NO~!"

Her scream and desperate writhing only made the 'Cons laugh. Daxis broke off his laugh when one of her flailing feet collided with his crotch.

Daxis dropped her and grabbed at his groin, "FRAG! Slag it... OWW!" His optics latched onto Elita crumpled at his feet. "You just ruined any chance you had of being treated with consideration, whore!"

Crouching down on the floor next to her, he held her down with one hand on her throat and shoved the other hand into her chest, breaking open her flaming red chestplates and partially revealing her pulsing spark. She arched up in pain, shuddering violently.

Gathering the last of her strength, Elita strained against him and let forth a scream of fury. It didn't stop him. He wrenched her fully open and cupped her lifeforce with his hand, squeezing hard, getting another scream from her; this time one of agony.

"How's that feel? HUH?!" Daxis demanded.

The thunderous report of a cannon at close range made Elita's vision go white.

"How's THAT feel, slaghead?"

From where she had been dropped onto the floor, Elita could see a pair of huge black feet and on the other side of them she could see the body of Daxis – with a smoking pit on top of his ribcage where his head and shoulders used to be.

Ironhide!

The black mech's famous cannons activated again – this time the smaller Decepticon was the target. He was blown backwards in a mess of parts and exploded limbs to land many lengths away from her. Elita curled up on the floor instinctively protecting her exposed chest. Her euphoria at seeing someone she knew in her darkest hour was fading into a strange sort of numbness.

"Primus... Elita!"

Thick black arms topped with spinning hot cannons cradled her up off the ground. Looking up at her saviour, the femme lay weakly in his embrace.

"H-Hide?"

Her hand reached up for him but couldn't make the distance. Ironhide bent his head down over her, pressing his cheek to hers and rocking on his crouched knees, "Yeah, it's me. I've got you."

His gaze ran over her chestplates, seeing the horrific damage to her upper section. He didn't understand how she was still functioning. He winced at her hot energon dripping over his cannons and sizzling. It was coming out from so many places on her body, it was terrifying him.

"...Ironhide..." Elita's hand gripped the outer rim of his chest armor, holding on so hard it was like if she let go, so would her grip on life.

"Hold on, alright? Just stay with me, don't you dare give in."

Something in her chest besides her spark hissed loudly and sent white sparks shooting over his face. Her hand fell back from his armor. Her lone functioning optic stuttering and blinking out.

"_ELITA!"_


End file.
